


100+ Words of Person of Interest

by rudigersmooch



Series: 100+ Words Series [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Rating varies by chapter and is in the chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13966998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudigersmooch/pseuds/rudigersmooch
Summary: A collection of short ficlets/standalone snippets based on FFA prompts.





	1. Switching (Reese & Finch & OMC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Brief mention of date rape drugs.

John had every intention of monitoring the day's number from a bar's length away, so he was surprised when he sat down at a corner table and the number—Adrian Thompson, 32, executive manager for a chain of sporting goods stores, likely embezzling to fund his supply of women and booze—immediately pulled out the seat next to him. Surprised, more, when the next half hour was spent with "you look like you need this, I'm Adrian" buying him drinks.

"Finch," John asked as soon as he was able to do so discretely. Adrian had gone back to the bar for yet another round, all smiles, and John was watching him suspiciously. "What do we know about his preferences?"

"Preferences? For what?"

"I mean he's trying to get me drunk. Every drink he's had, he's bought me two."

"Oh." A pronounced pause. "There's nothing to indicate...but I suppose. No long term partner that I can find, at least." Another pause. "If you're feeling compromised, Mr. Reese, you can leave."

"No, it's fine. We won't be here much longer." John had been watching for it, so he noticed immediately even at this distance, the small _plop_ of something that Adrian dropped into a glass of whiskey. "He just put something in my drink."

"I fail to see how that's _fine_ , Mr. Reese."

"Because it's about to be _his_ drink," John said almost cheerfully, and he stood, ostensibly to help Adrian carry the drinks back to the table but really because the switch would be easier in transit.


	2. Making Out (Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated Teen.

The quick pass of a flashlight over the darkened hallway made Harold pick up speed, but the increase was too small to make much of a difference, definitely not enough to outrun the two security guards searching for them. Their options were few, hobbled as they were by Harold's limitations, and so Harold was expecting it when John suddenly pulled him around the corner and pinned him gently against the nearest door. There were only so many explanations for two grown men sneaking around a seedy motel in the middle of the night; John naturally chose the one most likely to make people turn and walk the other way, and so the kiss wasn't surprising either.

The details, on the other hand, were. John might've been kissing him over and over with manufactured desperation, but his hands kept Harold's neck gently braced the entire time, an obvious precaution against jarring his spine. He also stood close enough to make it impossible for any observers to pick out the details of Harold's clothes or form, all of the color smothered behind John's dark, heavy coat. Even now, even like this, it was John keeping him safe, and so despite the ridiculousness of the situation, Harold found himself struck by an inescapable...fondness.

He'd never expected an opportunity to kiss John Reese, but now that the excuse was there, Harold let himself kiss back, his hands clenched tight around the skin-warm wool at John's waist.


	3. Canon-Divergence AUs (Reese & Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Set during 3x16.

Harold had done a great many foolish things in his life, but even so, he could never have been called impulsive. Being impulsive was the sort of thing that dissolved a carefully crafted cover identity, that put people at risk, that jeopardized everything. Harold avoided it at all costs, and it had served him well over the years, even with his mistakes.

So he really could not explain why, after he watched Casey finally disappear into the shadows with two fewer teeth than he'd had a minute ago, he found himself struggling out of his car to do the stupidest, most _impulsive_ thing he'd ever done in his life.

"Mr. Reese?" he called, and…Agent Reese did not startle, of course he didn't, but his attention was on Harold in a heartbeat.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Reese asked, his voice calm and inflection-less. His hands were resting casually in his pockets, no sign of the gun he carried, but Harold knew that could change in an instant. As it was, Harold was sure it was only his hobbling walk that stopped him from immediately being seen as a threat to be eliminated; he only hoped that impression would hold out long enough.

"Regrettably not," Harold said. His palms were sweating, his entire body was shaking, and Reese was staring at him, no doubt memorizing his face for the report he'd make later. "But I nonetheless have to ask you for five minutes of your time. Please."

There were many reasons for Agent Reese to say no. There were many ways this entire encounter could go wrong. Harold imagined the Machine would have had something to say about the odds; no smart man would've bet on a favorable outcome.

Except Agent Reese didn't shoot or walk away, and for whatever reason—curiosity, compassion, something else—he waited, and gestured for Harold to continue.

"You have three."

Harold took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and tried.


	4. Non-traditional A/B/O (Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated Teen.

John could barely smell anything these days, though of course that had been the justification for the CIA hiring betas to begin with. With how common scent blasters and neutralizers were in the field, it was only logical to recruit people who didn't depend on their nose, those people who wouldn't particularly miss it when one of their senses was gone. An alpha or omega might be broken by the loss of that part of their world, by the damage to their innate ability to find a compatible partner, but a beta like John? Not really. 

In theory.

Regardless of how true to life the idea was, however, it was still damned inconvenient when he couldn't even tell what people were. Normally he knew how to use his eyes and ears to make up for the deficiency, and he'd spent long hours practicing how to read body language and the signs of each category. Eventually—if he watched someone long enough—some clue would always fall out to reveal them an alpha, beta, or omega. It was usually a point of pride that it never took him that long to figure it out, even without smell to help him.

The exception, apparently, was Harold Finch. Three years they'd been working together, and he was still an enigma; all John knew was that, twice a year, Harold disappeared for three days in what could be either a short heat or a long rut. The day before he disappeared, days like today, he always smelled vaguely salty, but that could've just been put down to him sweating through his suit or John desperately looking for a hint, any hint. 

It never helped, and the mystery was driving him mad.

"I could help you with that," John finally said into the silence of the library. He was flipping idly through a book and not managing to read a word, too distracted as he was by Harold mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. 

Harold looked at him then, but he didn't bare his neck or his teeth, no instinctive signs of submission or aggression at all. Aside from the sweat and the slight fidgeting in his chair, it could've been just any other day in the library.

"Help with what?"

"Your time," John said. He took a bite of his donut with forced casualness. The flaky pastry was sweet enough that he could taste it, which meant it had to be painfully sweet to Harold; he wouldn't get these again. "Whichever it is. I could help."

"That's very noble of you, Mr. Reese," he said, in a tone that clearly said it wasn't noble at all, "but I manage just fine on my own."

"You don't have to. I may not be exactly what you need, but surely I'm better than being alone."

Harold looked offended at that; John couldn't tell why. An alpha response to being challenged? An omega one to the idea that he couldn't manage alone? Difficult to say.

And then, of all things, Harold wavered, just from looking at John's face.

"If you're offering," he said slowly, "it's always easier if I manage to come once before it starts. If you wouldn't mind masturbating in front of me, Mr. Reese, I think it might...help."

Well. John could certainly manage that.


	5. Fake Relationships (Reese/Finch, Will Ingram)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Set sometime after 2x14. Assumes Will Ingram didn't disappear off the face of the planet.

John had expected to meet the man who called Finch "Uncle Harold" eventually, but whenever he'd thought about it before, he'd expected it to be on his terms. Not by having Will Ingram stumble by chance into the small bistro where the two of them were eating lunch.

"Uncle Harold!" His voice said he was excited to see Finch, and his face was friendly, without guile. John felt himself relax as much as he was able; his research had said Will was a doctor, well-regarded and curious but not suspicious by nature. He'd probably say a few words to Finch and be on his way, with little or no interest in the man sharing his uncle's table.

It was rare that John was wrong, but this time he was; when Will spotted him, he looked confused for half a second, and then the expression shifted—bafflingly enough—to one of delight and relief.

"Harold," he said in a stage-whisper to Finch, "you didn't tell me you were seeing someone."

Finch choked on his soup, but stayed dignified enough to dab at his lips with a napkin rather than make a horrible mess. It would've been funny, except John himself was having a similar difficulty swallowing.

"Sorry, Will," Finch said. "It must have slipped my mind." He gestured to John with an expression significantly friendlier than anything John usually saw. "This is my friend, John Wiley. We met through work a few years ago."

"He was giving me a quote for a client, and it evolved from there," John finished with a smile, and he stuck his hand out.

"It's nice to meet you," Will said, returning the handshake easily enough. Nothing about his posture said he was displeased by the story—Finch as gay, specifically involved with John—and that made sense. Will and Finch didn't see each other often, but their interactions said they cared for one another; Will must have been worried about his uncle, and so was happy enough to believe Finch was in a relationship. Any relationship. 

The enthusiasm carried them through five minutes of cheerful conversation before Will left to order his own food, and John used the reprieve to study Finch with careful eyes. The idea that two men having lunch were automatically dating was an interesting assumption on Will's part; it had to have come from somewhere, some other cover story or thing Finch had said in the years before John had known him.

Finch wouldn't tell him, though, even if John asked.

"John Wiley is gay?" John asked finally, ostensibly turning his attention back to his sandwich. He kept an eye on Finch, however, and so noticed when he winced, his expression sheepish.

"It seemed as good of an explanation as any for the reason he's never been married, despite his wealth." Finch ate another spoonful of soup. "Also, you did spend two days traipsing around the globe with Logan Pierce, a known playboy, only to never be seen in his social circle again. It seemed plausible."

John couldn't fight his grin at that, and he didn't try to, just in case Will glanced back their way.

"You think of everything, don't you, Finch?"

"If only, Mr. Reese, if only."


	6. Sex Pollen (Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated Explicit. Some consent issues (because sex pollen).

John was pretty sure that Finch didn't want to be doing this; not here, not with him. But he was also pretty sure that Finch wasn't in his right mind, and John knew he would hate it a lot more if John just let him run loose to find relief in the arms of a stranger. A stranger might be after his secrets, might hurt him or be hurt by him, and neither of them could've lived with that. This, at least, was something they could survive, even if John swallowed down _guilt_ and _shame_ and _pain_ every time Finch apologized and then reached for him again.

Finch's eyes were hazy behind his glasses, unfocused; he probably didn't even realize that they were inside a subway car, or that John had hastily thrown his coat over Finch's lap to hide his erection, both before and after he'd undone his belt. The car was deserted, but anyone who walked in would've been able to easily guess what John's hands were up to; he tried to make it quick, again, even as he noted that Finch's skin was fever-hot and his cock was dripping and sticky and that it was all ruining John's coat.

Then Finch came, his eyes cleared for a handful of seconds, and it started all over again.

"Sorry, Mr. Reese. I'm so...sorry," Finch said, even as his hips started giving tiny jerks and his cock firmed up in John's hand again. His fingers were trembling and digging bruises into John's arm; it was painful in a lot of ways.

"We're friends, Harold, and you're drugged. It's fine."

It may not have been the whole truth, but it was the truth Harold could accept.


	7. Time Loops (Finch & Root & Reese)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Brief appearance of Root.

The first time Harold gave in and let Ms. Groves free, she shot John in the leg.

"Oops, that was high," she said, not sounding very apologetic. She glanced alternately at the gun she held and at John, who was bleeding out on the floor. "I guess it's a little harder to kneecap someone than I thought."

Harold ignored her, too busy trying to wrap his belt around John's thigh. His hands were slick with blood where they slipped against expensive leather and John looked dangerously pale already, and Harold knew his efforts wouldn't help, not this time. Still, he kept trying.

This wasn't the first time he'd watched John die, not the tenth or the twentieth either. He thought he'd be used to it by now; he wasn't.


	8. Hand Kink (light Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences.

Harold regularly hated the violence that came with their line of work, but he never hated it quite as much as when John came back to the library while injured. This time it was something small—his palm bruised from the impact of a fall on concrete, his knuckles scraped from where his fist had made contact with a perpetrator's teeth—but it was still an injury, still unnecessary pain for someone who'd already known too much of it.

Despite John's protests that he was fine, Harold cleaned and bandaged the wounds with great care...and great regret. John had long, lovely hands, swift and efficient and with fingers miraculously never broken or scarred from his time spent in the CIA; Harold hated to see them damaged now, and he tried to convey that with each gentle pass of the cleansing cloth over the raw wounds. John didn't flinch at the sting of antiseptic or at the touch of the bandage that followed, but there was a slight tremor to the way he held his hands palm-down during the process, like he very much wanted to pull away.

When Harold finished, he took a long second to examine his work, to make sure that there was no swelling in the knuckles or any chill to John's skin. He ignored the fact that it felt uncomfortably like holding hands.


	9. Age Difference (light Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Set during season 1.

Between his injury and the lack of sleep often required for their work with the Machine, Harold spent more days than not feeling twice his age. This would not have been a problem, however, if it weren't for Mr. Reese's occasional _helpful_ suggestions, always delivered with his particular brand of what passed for humor.

"Finch, if you're gonna work all night, you should try getting some exercise."

"Are you sure you should be eating that, Finch? It won't help your cholesterol."

"Have you considered a cane?"

While Harold usually ignored the comments or responded with a strained smile, the last one was worse than the rest, masked as it was under a layer of overdone _concern_. It was unusually cruel of Mr. Reese, especially when it had come just seconds after Harold's bad leg gave out and sent him stumbling into him, gifting him with first-hand knowledge of exactly how strong and fit and young Reese was in comparison. Harold lost his temper as much as he ever did, and pushed himself back hard enough to stumble again.

"I'm quite fine, thank you," Harold snapped when Reese reached out to steady him with humiliating ease, "and I'd appreciate it if you kept your comments to yourself. Your _teasing_ is not helpful."

Reese stared at him blankly but dropped his hands.

"I wasn't teasing," Reese said mildly. "I just think you should take better care of yourself. It's easy to forget that you're human when you're busy."

The words sounded sincere, and Harold wasn't sure what to do with that.

"That means a lot, coming from someone who gets shot at ten times a day," Harold finally settled on, but he might've said it more fondly than he'd intended, judging by Reese's very brief, very small smile in response. 

Harold thought it was perfectly charming; the solitude must have been getting to him.


	10. Role Swap (Reese & Carter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. AU set during 1x09.

The Woman in a Suit was as fair as anyone could be when it came to dispensing vigilante justice, but as much as John appreciated the gift-wrapped criminals, that didn't necessarily mean that he liked cleaning up the mess. Even if she was kind enough to leave a list of their crimes on their handcuffed bodies whenever she left the scene, it didn't really help when it meant he'd have to write a report later and submit her neat handwriting into evidence yet again. People were starting to get suspicious, with half the precinct thinking he'd made her up and the other half assuming he was sleeping with her so she could cover her crimes. In truth, John didn't know which assumption he should be more offended by, especially when he finally met _her_ only because she appeared out of the shadows like some guardian angel. Even in the dim light, she was stunning.

She was also very, very sorry that he'd gotten shot, and under the pain of cracked ribs from the bullet's impact on his vest, he appreciated that. Distantly.

"Sorry, Detective," she said, the words simple and straight-forward, not at all like her vengeance-from-the-shadows persona. "I came as soon as I could. I'm glad you were wearing a vest."

John smiled crookedly and tried to sit up. Failed. He might need a minute longer, even if every additional minute meant more suspicion from honest cops, and more attention from the bad ones.

"Don't worry about it. Happens all the time." 

"It shouldn't," she said with conviction, and John wondered how she was able to say it like that.

He didn't glance at his CI. This wasn't one of the times she'd been able to avoid bloodshed, and...John appreciated it, he did, even if he also felt sorry. 

Bottlecap had just been trying to make a living; it wasn't his fault John hadn't thought to search him for a gun.


	11. Malfunctioning Technology (Shaw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Set post-series; mentions of canonical character deaths.

Shaw didn't know why, even with Root's voice and her implant as an option, the Machine still preferred to deliver the numbers in code over random New York payphones. She'd suspect it was a power trip, except she had her doubts about all-powerful supercomputers orbiting the Earth even _needing_ power trips.

She picked up the phone when it started ringing anyway, but she wasn't thrilled by the prospect of heading back to the library to dig through a bunch of dusty books right before lunch.

As it turned out, she didn't need to.

"Shadow, Victor, Bravo; Time, November, Whiskey; Flight, Uniform, X-Ray."

That was Reese's number; Finch had received it before, back when he was helping Carter, with the exact same words.

Now she was hearing it two months after he died.

"That's not funny," she said, but the Machine wasn't finished. It continued to supply those keywords in its eerie, randomized voices.

"Sierra, Tango, Bravo; Lima, X-Ray, Lima; November, Golf, Charlie."

Finch's too, and it was even the same story: dead, dead, dead.

"Ayacucho, Romeo, Tango; Deterministic, Alpha, Kilo; Camera, Juliet, Golf."

Shaw didn't know whose number that was, but she had a guess. She angrily hung up before those voices could give her any other words, and then told Bear it was just a malfunction when he startled and looked at her with large eyes.

For the rest of her walk, she ignored the ringing phones she passed. It was a lesson: if the Machine wanted her, it had to learn that she couldn't save ghosts.


	12. Indulgence (Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Set after some sort of de-aging and pretend relationship plot.

"I know _why_ you did it, Mr. Reese," Harold said, his voice so thick with disdain that John fought the urge to recoil. "I was suspicious of you, and you couldn't very well explain the details of our actual relationship in the middle of a hospital. As obvious as my attraction to you was, indulging the misunderstanding probably seemed like the easiest way to ensure cooperation."

John winced. The way Harold described it made the deception sound so deliberate, so calculated. John had just wanted him safe.

"That's not it at all, Finch," John said, but didn't elaborate. Harold wouldn't want to hear his explanation, not when he was all but vibrating with anger. "And it wasn't that obvious. Even when you were younger, you apparently kept your emotions to yourself."

Harold gave him a long look in response to that, his face unreadable. John waited in silence for him to finish, to find more angry words, but whatever he saw on John's face seemed to calm him somewhat. The anger slipped away; instead, he just looked tired, and his usual age.

"Nonetheless," Harold said, "I wish you hadn't done it."

The sincere regret in his voice was expected, but it still burned, tainting the memories of the last few days. The Harold who'd kissed his neck and held him close and acted like he was in love with John was far different from the one who stood here now, and that was something he'd have to remember. It wasn't wise to indulge or linger in fantasy, not when John could see just how repellent Harold found the idea now.

John cleared his throat, more to stall for time than anything.

"I know, Finch. You've made that clear."


	13. Daemon AU (Reese/Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences.

Harold had never played dumb, only harmless, and so he'd never really minded the form Ambersine took when she finally settled. A crested capuchin might not have been the most typical daemon form for someone who grew up on a farm in Iowa, but Harold had always known he wasn't going to live in those wide fields forever. In a city as international as New York, a monkey daemon wasn't that unusual, and when it came to the covers he preferred—a tech geek, a man who was smart but small and timid and _harmless_ —the form suited him just fine. Ambersine had always been clever like that, and she knew, more than anything, that Harold liked to be underestimated.

Mr. Reese had never underestimated him, and from the start, the feeling was mutual. It took months for Harold to realize that this was odd, because while Harold had been (reluctantly) more open than he usually was from the moment they met, John Reese had been a CIA agent. Being underestimated should've been his natural state, but nothing could've made someone assume John was harmless. Having his daemon—a massive timber wolf, as silver and proud as anything Harold had ever seen on this Earth—couldn't have been an advantage for a spy, and Harold spent a long time wondering why Lia had chosen a shape so intimidating, so large, so _conspicuous_.

Days after their fateful encounter with the late Kara Stanton, Harold walked into the library and saw Lia curled around John protectively, her body a shield and a shelter both, and he understood. Understood, too, the wary looks that Lia sometimes shot him, especially when John wasn't looking. 

For Lia, it didn't matter if she gave the game away: all she wanted was to be terrifying enough that anyone who thought about going for John's throat would think twice. But she didn't know what to do about potential threats that John himself wasn't guarding against, or the idea that all her protections would be for naught if Harold was ever threatened.


	14. Taxes (Reese & Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences.

Even in this less-than-ideal situation, John had to hand it to him: Finch really went all out on his cover identities.

"John Rollins cheats on his taxes?" His earpiece stayed silent, but obviously so: Finch was already listening. "That would've been helpful to know before the FBI showed up to arrest me for felony tax evasion."

"It adds to the authenticity, Mr. Reese," Finch said, not sounding guilty at all, either about the unshared detail or the fact that John was currently hiding out in a neighboring building on his block, on the watch for the two agents who'd seemed very surprised when John escaped out the window. "And Mr. Rollins has very good lawyers. I'm sure the manhunt will be over shortly."

"'Authenticity,' Finch? Seems a little risky, considering my fingerprints are already on file." John peeked over the window sill and then ducked down immediately when he saw the glaringly obvious cable van. The FBI was still watching the neighborhood, it seemed. "You'll have to let me know which of _your_ aliases have committed tax evasion for authenticity. It only seems fair."

The pause that followed was telling.

"None of my aliases would get caught at it, John—they're all very good with numbers." Another pause. "Mr. Egret has a minor possessions charge, however, for marijuana. Rumor has it that he's been showing interest in strong narcotics ever sense, although nobody can prove anything."

John didn't smile as he hunkered down against the wall, but it was a near thing.

"Maybe I should just point them your way, then."

"Just stay down, Mr. Reese, and wait for my signal."


	15. Babies (Reese & Finch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Mentions of an abandoned baby.

"I realize that we've been in this situation before, Mr. Reese," Finch said, "but I feel I should mention that I didn't intend for the situation with Leila to set a precedent for kidnapping children."

"I didn't kidnap her," John said, but he admitted the protest might've sounded a little flimsy in light of the sleeping baby in his arms, a baby he hadn't had two hours ago. "I found her on the bus when I followed Mr. Peterson. She was alone, and I didn't want to just leave her there."

"The right place at the right time, Mr. Reese?"

"Actually, yes."

Finch looked skeptical, but he at least didn't point out that John could've called child services or notified the bus driver, or done any number of reasonable, distant things instead of the direct action he'd taken. John was grateful for the silence, even though it was the reaction he'd expected; he knew Harold would've done the same thing if he'd seen a small, unhappy baby tucked in a cardboard box under a seat, with nothing but a thin blanket and no bottle. You didn't have to be a genius to draw the right conclusion about what that situation meant, and John felt better knowing she at least wouldn't be forgotten here.

Finch did too, even if he wouldn't admit it; John could already see him softening when he took in the baby's sleeping face, her unruly tuft of dark hair, and the way she drooled on John's shirt. 

Finch's accepting sigh was more a production than anything, and he turned back to his computer with a reluctance that was entirely feigned.

"Well. Let's see what we can find out about her parents, shall we?" Finch said, and he didn't react when John came to stand behind his shoulder, the baby still curled against his chest.


	16. Hanahaki (Carter & Mrs. Kovach)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for General Audiences. Contains hanahaki disease.

Detective Carter sat next to Mrs. Kovach and held out the cup of coffee. It wouldn't go down easy—it never did, in situations like this—but it was still an excuse to sit just for a minute, just until Mr. Kovach was released.

"I can help you, if you let me," she said, but Mrs. Kovach was already shaking her head. It was always the same story—clumsy, stupid, inattentive—but this time it had a twist, something that couldn't be explained away as just an accident.

The creeping veins on Anna Kovach's throat looked eerily like vines, and they were the same dark color as her bruises. Joss couldn't say which was more dangerous right then, and it made something inside of her rage; either way, Edward Kovach was murdering his wife, bit by bit.

"It's not technically a homicide," Joss said gently, "when someone gets infected. Most people would say it's nobody's fault. Nobody to blame." She looked at the lines on Mrs. Kovach's neck again; the flowers couldn't be too far behind, days at most. "When it's growing because your husband won't stop beating on you but you can't stop hoping, I tend to disagree."

Mrs. Kovach curled her fingers, thin like twigs, tighter around the plastic cup. 

"Ed loves me. He does." She smiled sadly. "He's just going through a rough time."


End file.
